


Boy Band Trash

by potterwatch



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Battle of the Bands, Boy Bands, Derek Went to Julliard, Everybody Goes Home Happy, F/F, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 11:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20173723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterwatch/pseuds/potterwatch
Summary: This year’s Beacon Battle of the Bands brings the Beacon Babes and Halefire face to face. How will their rivalry play out? If only Stiles knew. If only Scott would stop insisting that there wasn’t even a rivalry to begin with.





	Boy Band Trash

They join the competition because Scott wants to, ok? And they basically always do whatever Scott wants. It’s not because he’s the leader, or has the best instincts (he is, and he does) it’s because of the way his eyes light up when he sees the flyer. And then Jackson gets a look at it and demands they get their own posters printed and sell merch, and then they’re definitely going. Stiles doesn’t even get a chance to check with Lydia, who should definitely get a say in this, as their manager, but he knows she’ll sign off on it. The Beacon Babes is just her pet project, after all, the one she took on to blow off steam in between stints at the robotics lab, and whatever she’s doing lately with WAN (the Woman’s Association of None of your fucking business Stiles, quit asking). It has to be a pet project, with a name like Beacon Babes, which Scott chose 100% unironically, and they all went along with because of his eyes. Also Kira likes it. She thinks it makes them sound fun and unpretentious. And when Jackson isn’t the one saying it, everyone else agrees. 

So they’re in for the contest. Definitely. Allison has a killer light show (she can do this thing where it looks like their eyes glow different colors. It’s awesome) and Scott starts enthusiastically showing them all bits of choreography, because suddenly he’s become all acrobatic and wholesomely assumes the rest of them can keep up. It’s a disaster. But like, a glittery, neon colored disaster, which is pretty much their aesthetic. (Their fans seem to dig it. They have a loyal online following, with a separate fan page dedicated to Jackson’s abs alone. He keeps the page open in a tab on his ridiculously expensive iPhone, and vehemently denies it). Lydia strategically leaks practice footage, particularly that clip where Scott is earnestly telling them all he believes in them, and they’re all shirtless, and posts the link to where fans can buy Kira’s custom Beacon Babes sports bra, and then the word is out. By the time they roll up to the convention center, this year’s home of Beacon Battle of the Bands, a decent fraction of the crowd milling is wearing their merch. Scott and Kira wave enthusiastically. Jackson sneers. The crowd loves it. Stiles has to drag both Scott and Kira away from signing a pink-haired woman’s chest, to keep Jackson from sneering more. It’s not even that Jackson is into pink-haired women (and seriously? Who even knows what Jackson is into besides Gucci?) it’s that he can’t stand being left out, and that kind of stress early in the day isn’t good for their performance. 

The main room of the convention center is huge, but somehow, even as Stiles gawks at the size, it starts to fill with all sorts of contenders, plus their various groups of fans. There’s a terrifying girl group just by the main doors, all wearing mesh and leather, and heavy looking biker boots, except for the lead singer, who is barefoot with a killer pedicure (emphasis on the killer). Over their very tall heads, Stiles can just make out a collection of electric violins, which he didn’t even know were a thing, being tuned up by a couple of kids he vaguely recognizes from his high school band. Band kids always were into some weird shit.

And then there’s Halefire. When Scott sees them, he lets out an audible gasp. Scott has been unapologetically following Halefire on all social media platforms ever since the first time they booked a gig together, which happens all the time. Something about them playing off each other well, and both coming up from Beacon High, which people seem to think gives them something in common, even though they never hung with each other or anything. The older Hales were out before Scott and Stiles graced the halls of Beacon High with their presences. He vaguely remembers one of the younger kids from his history class, but at the time Stiles was too busy trying to memorize the exact shade of Lydia’s hair to pay him any attention. 

Scott is a little bit in love with all of Halefire, which is comprised of basically the hottest family Stiles has ever seen, and three of their painfully attractive friends. It’s not even about them being hot, which Stiles would get. Scott just admires them as musicians. 

And Halefire is all painfully attractive. Sure, they have some looks on their side too. The merits of Jackson’s abs have been discussed at length and few people can resist being charmed by the combination of Scott’s tousled hair and literal dimples. But the still look like actual human people. Scott looks like the kind of guy you’d borrow a pen from in English class and even Jackson looks like her could be your douchey boss or asshole neighbor –the one who always parks his stupid expensive car across two parking spots (which Jackson does. Like all the time. Stiles doesn’t even think he actually knows what those little lines in the parking lot are for, except to provide a textured background for his selfies). The Hales all look someone should be bartering with them to return their loved ones’ souls from the underworld. They’re fucking Grecian. 

Derek Hale, the band’s front man and leader, is the first to see them. His face immediately drops into a scowl. His whole face. There’s something sentient about his eyebrows. Because the other thing about Halefire? They hate the Beacon Babes. Like, really hate them. Like how Jackson feels about tap water or snapchat not regularly updating their filters. 

Derek crosses his arms and glares at them, biceps bulging impressively out of his two-sizes-too-small Halefire shirt. Beside him, Erica, Boyed, and Isaac, the non-blood Hales in the group, rarely seen without the company each other, exchange smirks. They seem to think that Derek’s annoyance is the funniest thing ever. Stiles feels superior. They’d never disrespect Scott like that. At least like, not in front of their rivals. On group movie night? Sure. But Scott always wants to watch The Notebook and they’ve seen it like seventeen times already.

Scott doesn’t seem to notice (or at least doesn’t care about) Derek’s facial expression. With a wave of welcome, he bounds up to Halefire.

“Derek! Hi!” He says, a grin spreading across his face, uneven jaw and all. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here! Laura’s last Instagram post made it look like you were in San Diego this weekend!” Scott usually spoke to Derek in mostly exclamations. Derek usually spoke to Scott in grunts of exasperation. 

Over Derek’s shoulder, a woman with Derek’s same dark hair and matching tattoo lets out a laugh like a full moon: bright, and a little terrifying. 

“Oh you’re so sweet to notice!” She says. “Derek, tell him he’s sweet to notice.” Derek lets out a grunt and tightens his arms across his chest. Laura, unconcerned, simply brushes past him. “It was a flashback, we went last month. We’ve been planning the competition for weeks. But Derek wouldn’t let me post anything.” She leans forward and whispers, conspiratorially. “He thinks the music should speak for itself. Be its own publicity.” 

“Well, it looks like you still have plenty of people here!” Scott says, nodding his head at a collection of teens staring awestruck at Derek. They’re wearing homemade Halefire t-shirts. One of them has a wolf ears headband. Stiles has never loved anything like he loves the moment Derek catches sight of it. His face goes through a complicated range of emotions. Grief. Desperation. Acceptance. He offers the teens a slight uncurling of his lips. They swoon.

“You’re fans love you!” Scott chirps.

Laura smiles, canines poking out from very red lips. “I know,” she coos. “They do.” Laura is an experience. 

A man wearing an official looking lanyard and an expression of longsuffering endurance appears at Laura’s elbow. 

“Halefire?” He asks, checking a clipboard. “We were ready for you ten minutes ago.”

Laura bares her teeth at him, “Call me Laura,” she says. A terrifying, terrifying experience.

Derek spares one last grimace for Stiles neon shirt (which is bright green. And says, The Emissary, because Scott once bet he wouldn’t actually wear it and Stiles isn’t a quitter. Also, Scott is a little bad at bets), before letting Laura tow him away. 

Their first set is to an enthusiastic gang of screaming teens, who yell Scott’s name and swoon over the possibility of signing Jackson’s abs (it’s pure pandering, but Lydia says their ticket sales went up when they started raffling off signing chances, so it’s part of the gig). A truly alarming portion of their fanbase is teenage girls, but hey. You could do worse than teenage girls. They could all be Jackson as a teenager, parking their porches in accessible parking and demanding Stiles fetch fancy imported water (Not Evian, you complete trash). So yeah. Teenage girls. They pay their bills. Or at least, subsidize their living expenses so they don’t have to rely solely on their day jobs (and who likes a day job? Besides Scott, who’s a vet tech and gets to snuggle puppies all day).

Scott is just yelling the last lines of Howling for You into the mic when Stiles spots Halefire in the awnings. He slams his sticks into the drums and hears the crowed roar. Let’s see Halefire have that kind of draw. He’s so intent on trying to catch Derek’s eyes (to glare, of course to glare) that he nearly misses Kira final chorus of yeah, yeah, yeahs.

Luckily, the crowed doesn’t notice. They scream and yell and look genuinely sad that their set is over. Bless them. Teenage girls really are the best. 

Halefire, it seems, is less pleased. They fold their arms over their chests instead of clapping, and sulk away as soon as Scott plays the last chord. Or at least, Derek does. Stiles isn’t really looking at anyone else. For competitive reasons, obviously. 

“What do they have that we don’t?” Stiles asks, glaring over Scott’s shoulder to Halefire’s retreating, identically leather-clad backs, once the crowed has begun to ebb and they’ve been instructed to break down to let the next act take their place.

“Well, for starters, they’re a real band.” Scott hoists his guitar strap up onto his shoulder. It’s neon pink. And leopard print. Scott found it at a consignment shop downtown, the kind that sells second-hand candles and someone else’s illegal furs. He is ridiculously proud of it.

Stiles whips his head back to stare at Scott. “We’re a real band!” 

“Dude,” Scott turns back to him, pausing in the breakdown of equipment to look at him head on. “Jackson doesn’t even play half the time. We pump his music in through the speaker.”

“Yeah, well, Jackson sucks.” Stiles says. It’s almost by instinct by now. Because Jackson does suck. Big time. It’s one of the few constants in his life. Stiles thinks some of it might be on accident. He once caught the kid watering a potted plant with an Evian water bottle and he hadn’t even had a clue why Stiles would give him shit for that. He kicks at a half-full water bottle and it spins off to where Kira is laying her base into its case. She grabs it right before it spins off-stage and into the waiting sea of litter. Stiles is pretty sure she’s going to drink it. His band is gross.

“Jackson sucks,” Scott agrees, not unkindly, “and he’s our lead guitar.”

“Duuude!” Stiles pulls at his hair, which is just long enough for him to get a grip on. Time for another buzz, then. You’re our lead guitar. You know Jackson’s just there to look pretty.”

“Which,” Scott picks his guitar back up again and plops his snapback onto his head. It is also leopard print, and neon green, “is basically the definition of boyband trash.”

“They said that?” Now Stiles’s pissed. Like, really pissed. Like, that time Jackson dumped all their delicious snack food because he was on some ridiculous health kick (health fad. It was a fad) and then wouldn’t even share his kale chips, pissed.

“Well, yeah.” Scott shrugs. “but it’s not really a surprise, I mean, we have a song that’s entirely comprised of ‘na-nahs.’ Not just the chorus. The whole thing.”

“People love Na Nah!” Stiles says, “It’s the second most asked for song!” Then, “oh my god, we’re boyband trash.”

Scott nods. “We really are. Lydia and Allison wouldn’t come to most of our shows, if they didn’t literally have to.”

“That’s not true!” Stiles protests, a ridge of concern pushing up between his eyes. 

“Oh no, it is.” Scott says, unconcerned. “Lydia told me. They’d be off touring the planetarium or picking out matching pajama sets.” And only Scott could make these two options sound equally interesting. He is the most ridiculously amiable ex in the entire world, even though he once spent two semesters corning Stiles to wax lyric about the color of Allison’s eyes (brown, Scott. They’re just brown. Get over it) and the smell of her hair (I know what conditioner she uses, I could get you some. Seriously, I’m trying to eat here). 

After he and Allison broke up, he switched almost immediately to supportive best friend. Stiles thinks he and Lydia even kissed once, before she and Allison got together, but neither of them make a big deal out of it. Stiles would’ve made a huge deal out of kissing Lydia, seriously. There would’ve been banners and possibly sky-writing. Which was probably why he never had. He still makes a big deal out of that one time he kissed Scott, even though it was kind of weird and he doesn’t want to do it again. Scott was amiable about that too. It’s why he’s in charge of everything. And Stiles is only in charge of the morally gray areas that Scott doesn’t cover, like breaking and entering. Well, him and Lydia. 

Kira wanders over to them then, taking a final swig from the water bottle. She considers Scott for a minute, then swaps their snapbacks. Hers says ‘Beacon Babe.’ It’s bedazzled. Scott beams at her. 

“We have a place in our music marked, “Jackson Solo,” where all he does is take his shirt off. For three minutes.”

Stiles groans. “If we’re so trash, then why do the Hales hate us? Shouldn’t they be, like, revealing in their musical superiority?” 

“We’re sweeping this contest on the merit of Jackson’s abs alone, I’d probably hate us too.”

“No you wouldn’t.” Stiles sighs. “You’d learn the lyrics to our choruses and clap along while wearing about 17 glow bracelets.”

“Ok, maybe.” Scott says. He does love glow bracelets. They make up a good percentage of the reason why he’s here to begin with. “But the Hales aren’t like that, they’re –”

“A real band, I know,” then, “and it’s not just Jackson! My abs are at least a little responsible for us sweeping the competition!” 

Scott pats his back agreeably. “Sure they are, buddy,” he says. And Stiles can’t even tell if he’s humoring him or not. It’s been that kind of day.

Scott drags him to see Halefire even though Stiles, resolutely, does not want to go. He wants to go see Baby Bananza and pretend he’s only there ironically. Like any self-respecting competitor. But Scott says they should “show support for their fellow musicians” and arguing with Scott makes him feel like an asshole. Which means he feels like an asshole a lot. 

The set is amazing. Amazing. Stiles swears he can’t feel his hands for part of it. Laura’s vocals are smoky and sweet and Derek on the guitar is a vision. Seriously. Stiles has a vision. Of Derek serenading him with that guitar and nothing else. It’s a problem. Stiles has a problem. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac are flawlessly in sync and the lyrics, oh man, the lyrics. They’re like, real lyrics, no nah nahs in sight. Stiles feels the bottom of his stomach dropping out. Feels a new understanding of music take its place. He’s not even fucking kidding. These guys could sell out stadiums. They could break records. 

The Beacon Babes break records too. But only in their song, Record Breaker, where they smash literal records on stage while Kira raps about the world’s greatest achievements. It would be kind of avant-garde. If it wasn’t terrible. 

The set ends and Stiles is still stuck to the floor, his boots fixed in an ocean of spilled soda and crumpled ticket stubs. He literally’s never going to think of music the same way again. Fuck Derek Hale. Like seriously. Fuck Halefire. Rage curls Stiles fingers. But just as suddenly, it melts away. The familiar edge of defeat settles in Stiles stomach. 

Scott puts his hand on Stiles shoulder. “You ok bud?” He asks, because Stiles has spent the last few minutes kicking at the ground and mumbling under his breath. Stiles doesn’t know what to say. For a moment, he resolves he will say nothing at all, he will let this thing die before it can grow fur. But it’s Scott, and Stiles can’t lie to him.

He opens his mouth. “He’s just so hot,” comes out in a whine. And Scott, wonderful, patient, son-of-a-saint Scott, gives him that look that says he was done with his shit three minutes ago.

“Look,” he says,” if you don’t go talk to him, I will. And I will be charming and funny and remember what he says about his interests and smile. A lot.” Stiles gasps.

“Not with your dimples!” he says. Wars could be fought and won on the power of Scott’s dimples.

“Exclusively with my dimples.” Scott says. “And two years from now we will have the cutest ever adopted kids, only you won’t be able to come see them because you will still be grossly into their dad and it’s just awkward for everyone. You’ll be Creepy Uncle Stiles who gives weird gifts and we only see on unimportant holidays.”

“But I don’t want to be Creepy Uncle Stiles! Scott, man, you can’t do this to me! You know your kids are going to be totally fucking cute, I’ll need to like, pinch their cheeks and teach them how to suck at something so the other kids don’t hate them!” Scott smiles like he’s won. Scott always wins. It’s the dimples.

“Then you’d better go talk to him, hadn’t you?”  
Stiles would like to say that he doesn’t give into Scott’s threats. He’d like to. He’s the son of a police officer and they don’t negotiate with terrorists, or excessively handsome best friends. But Scott’s kids are going to be so cute, Stiles is sure. There’s no way he can risk not being able to swoop them up whenever he pleases. He’ll be Cool Uncle Stiles, he’s sure of it. With that thought in mind, he goes to find Derek. 

“Scott’s making me talk to you.” Stiles says, folding his arms and leaning petulantly against the merch table.

Derek is skulking at the back of the room, looking like he’s trying to hide from his throngs of screaming fans. 

“Who the fuck is Scott?” Derek growls. Scott’s going to be heartbroken. Stiles will have to break it to him. It’s also ridiculously funny, that after all this time, Derek has yet to learn his rival’s name. A horrible thought strikes him. Maybe Scott is right. Maybe they’re not really rivals. Maybe Derek just hates them on principle because they make a mockery of everything he stands for. Stiles wonders if this is what it feels like to be Jackson. He resolves to be nicer. Well, a littler nicer. He resolves to tell Jackson when he’s being a douchebag so he can at least try to correct it.

Stiles dips his chin in Scott’s direction and Derek’s scowl deepens. To be fair, Scott is currently giving a piggyback to both Jackson and Kira, so Stiles can kind of see his point. Scott is a lot. Like, in the best possible way, but a lot.

“You guys are probably going to win,” Derek says, and it’s the longest sentence Stiles has ever heard leave his mouth. His voice is, surprisingly, not as deep as Stiles expected. “Once they announce the final challenge which is always,” he winces, “a fan favorite.” Last year they had made all the bands perform shirtless, with glow paint. The Beacon Babes hadn’t even needed to change their looks. 

Stiles wonders what Derek looks like shirtless. Probably obnoxious. But with a six-pack. Stiles feels the blood drain from his face. Oh god. Derek is probably one of those assholes who has a nine-pack.

Beside him, Derek mutters, “I went to Julliard.” 

Stiles snorts. “Well we went to Deaton’s School of Rock, what of it?” It had been a nice school. Deaton had let them practice in the empty clinic rooms, if they helped him walk the rowdier dogs. Sometimes he gave them pointers. And he totally looked the other way when Scott was bit by some sort of animal and they sewed him up in the back room, instead of taking him to the hospital, where his mom would have seen and freak out (as you should when your son gets bitten by a weird animal). So Deaton was cool. And a bit sketchy. 

Stiles is about to tell Derek all of this, because he can’t quite ever keep his mouth shut, when Laura comes sashaying up to them. “Have you heard?” She drawls, taking the water bottle from the table behind Derek and taking a sip. It’s possible Halefire is a little gross too.

“That’s not my water bottle,” Derek growls, and Laura just raises an eyebrow. Stiles is pretty sure she didn’t know, but is just playing it off.

“Anyway,” she says, replacing the cap, “They’ve announced the final challenge.” 

Derek raises an eyebrow in a silent question. His eyebrows seem to have a language all their own.

Laura smirks. “You’re not going to like it,” she says, but, for some reason, she’s looking at both Derek and Stiles. Stiles feels what’s left of his blood flood out of his face. He’s probably pale as the dead, which is not a good look for him. 

Derek raises the other eyebrow, this time in slight panic.

Laura’s lips curl even higher. Her blood red lipstick is bright against the gloom of the venue. 

“We have to switch songs and styles with another group,” She says, “and I already talked to Scott.”

Oh god. Oh no. Stiles is going to kill him. He’s going to silver-bullet their friendship. 

Beside him, he can feel Derek quivering with what must be misplaced rage. “Who, the fuck, is Scott?” He asks. Laura’s teeth slip out from behind her lips. She doesn’t tell him.

Scott is a bastard, is who he is. Stiles has spent the last 15 years of his life mistakingly thinking they’re best friends, but no. He’s going to have to promote Lydia. Or that Boyd kid. He looked sane. (Mostly).

But now Scott is staring back at him from the lit-up dressing room mirror and insisting that he doesn’t know what Stiles is talking about, and that they had to pick someone, after all. Hell, Stiles might even promote Jackson. The thought makes him shiver. 

Scott is looking dapper and dashing as hell in Derek’s leather jacket (which is only a little big in the shoulders) and Stiles knows if he turns around he’ll be met with a far more disastrous sight. 

He can't help himself. He turns around.

The Hales (and Erica, Isaac and Boyd, who aren’t related, but are also somehow their family? Laura had used the word “pack.” It was weird) are all in various states of undress. It is, in fact, a disaster. Erica and Isaac, who Stiles has dubbed “the murder twins,” because they look like the type, are slathering body paint onto an uncomplaining Boyd. Their smiles are feral. Laura is already sporting Kira’s second favorite bandeau top and a series of neon handprints across her abdomen. An excited Kira is showing her how to do her hair. It’s this spunky up-do that she’s spent the last few performances perfecting, very Beacon Babes. Very Kira.

Derek is the only one who’s not moving. His shirt is off (and fuck him, it is a nine-pack) and he’s looking down at the tub of body paint like he wants to kill it, but is unsure how to. 

Scott’s elbow finds Stiles ribs. “Go help him,” he commands, and Stiles goes, because Scott really is his best friend, and also the leader of the band, so what he says backstage goes. Also Derek has a nine-pack. Stiles goes.

“Need a hand there buddy?” His saunter is cut short by Derek’s glare. Derek, talented as he is, seems to have only two facial expressions: growly and more growly. 

Stiles steps back, hands up in surrender. “Wow, ok, no Stiles,” he says.

For a moment, Derek still looks pissed. Then something in his face shifts, and he lets out a sigh. 

“What the fuck is a Stiles?” He says, sounding tired. Stiles wonders what it must feel like to be in a room where everyone else seems younger than you.

Scott is busy helping Laura and Kira. Jackson is chatting up a dapper older man who Stiles thinks is Laura and Derek’s creep uncle or something. He takes a step closer to Derek, taking the paint from his hands.

“Listen,” he says, in a low voice. “If you really don’t want to do this I’m sure Scott would change the set. We have some songs that aren’t embarrassing.” Derek looks at him. There’s that eyebrow again. “Less embarrassing,” Stiles amends and Derek huffs. It’s almost a laugh. Almost. 

Across the room, Kira is adding the finishing touches to Laura’s hair. “Derek,” she drawls, “are you still pouting or are you actually going to play along?” Derek’s scowl snaps back into place. For a moment, his face had showed something else.

“Well?” He growls at Stiles and it takes Stiles a moment to figure out what he means. Stiles is still holding the paint. Oh no. Oh god. 

Which is how Stiles finds himself, leaning over the back of a chair, applying body paint to the abs of Derek Hale. 

Derek flinches as the first dab of paint touches him. 

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbles, but there’s no way for him to warm it up, so he just keeps going. Above his head, Derek glowers.

There is a universe of silence, where Stiles is sure this is where he’s going to die, covered in paint in front of Derek Hale, and then Derek begins to speak.

“I just don’t like to take away from the music.” He grits out. “Or have all those people looking at me.”

Stiles laughs. Derek looks like he might break him. Quickly, Stiles says. “Well they’re going to be looking.” Which doesn’t help, but then he continues. “I mean, your body’s banging, but your music is banging, too. You’re like, seriously talented, man. Any time you’re playing, people are going to be looking. You guys are going to win this thing for sure.” He swipes a stripe of blue paint up from Derek’s navel. Derek seems to have relaxed somehow, leaving the lines of his abs less defined. Still freakishly defined, but a little less prominent. 

Stiles thinks he’s not going to say anything at all. but then he hears a mumbled, “thanks,” and the word seems to travel from Derek’s stomach to his mouth before falling on Stiles ears. Stiles gives his stomach a little pat, leaving a smear of blue paint right next to Derek’s bellybutton.

“No problem man,” he says. He has now successfully had a whole conversation with Derek’s abs. Next step: the world.

Their set is awful. It turns out, Jackson can’t really play a real guitar, when he’s expected to manage more than four chords, and the rest of them fumble their way through the verses until they get to the chorus, which they scream, too loudly, out of the sheer joy of finally knowing the words. 

Halefire are the only ones who really clap, Erica and Isaac starting a slow chant that even Derek, who has softened somehow with the addition of blue paint, joins in.

Halefire kills their set. Kills it. Seriously, Stiles didn’t even know their Beacon Babes’ lyrics could sound like that. He didn’t even know guitars could do that. And the way Erica played the drums? Man. He’s going to ask for lessons. Stiles isn’t ashamed to learn new things. The whole venue goes nuts, and it’s like the disastrous Beacon Babe’s performance never happened. Everyone is looking at Halefire. And it’s not just because of the body paint.

Derek comes off the stage bright-faced and wild-eyed. The stage lights have caught in his hair, tinging it orange and magenta. As he walks, Erica and Isaac duck under his arms, with Boyd following close behind them, and Derek looks delighted to see them. This close to the music, his face is light and open. Stiles can see that hint of softness in his eyes. It unhinges something in him. Leaves him aching. 

He shakes it off, steps back into the moment. “Hey good job, man!” He says, patting Erica on the shoulder. She looks like she wants to eat him. Not even in a mean way. Just very feral. “You killed it!” He says, eyes meeting Derek’s. And Derek, mythic, beautiful, nine-pack Derek, blushes. He dips his head, looking up through his lashes, and Stiles suddenly understands why people fight and kill for each other. Helen may have launched a thousand ships, but Stiles would move mountains for those eyelashes. 

“Thanks,” Derek says, and his voice is somehow low admits the chaos. “I actually liked Record Breaker.” When they had done it, it actually had been avant-garde. Laura had rapped. It was an experience. 

Erica and Isaac have ducked out from Derek’s arms, sauntering off to do whatever they do when they’re not being truly excellent musicians. Maybe killing someone. Definitely vandalizing public property. Scott is looking after Isaac like he might very well like to eat him himself. Everyone Stiles hangs out with is terrible. 

Derek takes a step forward. It might just be able to hear in the crowd. It might be. “Thanks for getting me grounded back there. You guys are alright.”

Stiles laughs. He does not take a step back. “You’re just saying that because you’re going to win,” he says, “and because you haven’t met Jackson.”

“Who the fuck is Jackson,” Derek whispers. There’s laughter in his voice. Then he tilts his head, a challenge in his eyes, “Well, we are real musicians.” He says.

“You went to Julliard,” Stiles laughs. 

“I did,” Derek says, and closes the space between them.

Halefire wins the contest. No one is surprised. They are the only actual musicians there, besides Baby Banaza, and they take second. Beacon Babes gets and honorable mention. Rather, Jackson’s abs get an honorable mention, but Stiles counts it. Jackson’s abs are a group effort after all. More notably, is that Halefire’s stoic front man, Derek “the eyebrows” Hale, gets kicked out of the performance hall for making out with Beacon Babe’s drummer. They disappear to the greenroom and are not seen again for a long time. Beacon Babe’s manager, Lydia Martin, is unavailable for questioning because she didn’t actually attend the show. Scott McCall is quoted as saying it’s the beginnings of a collaborative work. And then it is. The Babes and Halefire have practice together next Tuesday. Everyone is terrible.


End file.
